Another open letter to entities unlikely to respond:
Ode to Broscream McGymbro,
Standing there by the squat rack, I see you walking towards the gym from the study hall area, no shirt to be seen. I could stop here, but the world deserves to be conscious of your grandeur and illustriousness. Who wouldn't want to bask in the glory of your sweaty bitch tits and tanned flab covered stomach from the heat and humidity of the tropics? Certainly I would. The same way the Greek's emulated Adonis, carving stone to match the hardness of his chiseled body, I too wish to watch you and your slightly more athletic friend and aspire to your narcissistic display. Apparently it was show-muscle day....certainly not leg day - no day is leg day in Broscream McGymbro's world. I must have missed the memo...because you certainly made the gym yours. Much to everyone's pleasure around you, your manly testosterone driven screams at every repetition made sure we knew you can, in fact, pick up a weight and put them back down. Not like the 30x30ft gym isn't small enough already, packed with people, it makes for one hell of an overt area to concentrate...Please, tell me your workout schedule so I can come here to study. Your screams further supplemented with your crashing of the weights as you throw the METAL plates down from chest level...oh how Beethoven's 5th Symphony doth feebly compare to the clash and clang of your self-made gym opera. Perhaps you've been watching too many Ronnie Coleman videos, I admit, I admire him as well. But you must have somehow took his leg pressing 2,300 lbs or dumbbell pressing 200's while screaming and translated it to some magical mechanism of increasing muscle mass. I could be wrong but something deep down tells me Ronnie Coleman wasn't screaming when he was curling 25's or shoulder pressing 60's. Oh, and now you've decided to leave every weight you've ever touched in the middle of the floor in a giant spread out pool of small, hard-to-see dumbbells. Thank you. Thank you for the ankle traps, because as I'm walking to put back my weights on the rack like a normal human being, all I need is to be distracted and look up at your Vuvuzela-equivalent, obnoxious, annoying screaming and destroy my ankle on your cluster-fuck of weights. Please, do us all a favor, and drop that plate you're doing overhead plate circles with through your skull, so that the rest of us can go back to exercising.
Sincerely,
Jordan